


Disarmor

by Opalescence



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Boots - Freeform, Clothed Sex, Gender or Sex Swap, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, M/M, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalescence/pseuds/Opalescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(M/M genderswap.) Kylo Ren needs guidance and affection. Phasma likes control, and is one of the few members of the First Order strong enough not to fear him. Commence an ongoing affair aboard Starkiller Base.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disarmor

**Author's Note:**

> The gender swap - no slight to Gwendoline Christie. Her performance is great and I love the character. But I'll write what I know: rough gay sex. Thank you for reading; comments are appreciated; enjoy!

_ Twenty-seven years after the Battle of Endor. Storrmtrooper Captain Phasma of the First Order met Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren, when the Force-user was stationed alongside him on Starkiller Base. Ren was over a decade younger than Phasma, and seemed a decade younger still. For a so-called knight, he was a poor soldier -- moody, inscrutable, and prone to rage, he commanded through fear rather than respect. Despite his power, Ren had neither self-control or self-esteem.    _

_ To Phasma, this made Kylo Ren an appealing conquest.  _

_ While Phasma took up any chance to engage Ren in conversation, Ren’s responses were rare and terse. In the first month of their acquaintance, Phasma learned nothing about Ren’s likes and dislikes, history, or motivations; the knight was almost pathologically taciturn. But he never turned Phasma’s questions away. Finally, Phasma invited Ren to his quarters for a chat and Ren, who’d never shown any interest in chatting, complied. It was easy, then, to cut to the chase. As one of Ren’s only equals, it seemed Phasma was the first man to ever proposition the knight, and while Ren would never stoop to asking for human touch, he seemed to hunger for it insatiably. _

_ In their private chambers, Phasma saw a Kylo Ren that no other soldier on Starkiller Base was privileged to witness -- and the more he saw that secret face, the more he returned to possess it.  _

* * *

Phasma’s chromed armor was stored in a large chest in his quarters at night, and his red-and-black dress cape hung off a high hook on the wall, serving as the only unique decoration for the spartan room. Disarmored, the captain sat at his desk, idly twirling his finger around the brim of a glass of water. The small red clock next to his bed blinked: more than an hour and half after lights-out. While somebody of Phasma’s rank wasn’t obligated to adhere to the strict time rhythms of the Base, he usually prided himself on adherence to routine.

Of course, every routine has things worth making exceptions for.

Sharp footsteps approached in the corridor outside, and then stopped. Phasma’s door slid open behind him with a whirr. He didn’t need to turn to know who was there.

“You’re late.” 

“A matter required my attention,” Ren said, his voice echoing through the respirator of his ceremonial helm.

“You’ve used that excuse a lot lately. It’s unbecoming.”

“Lately there is much to attend to.” 

“We all have responsibilities, Ren. That’s no excuse to shirk your commitments. As leaders of the First Order, we have to set the example.” 

“What we’re doing now. Does that set an example?”

Phasma smiled. “Come here.”

Ren stepped towards Phasma and Phasma rose and turned to meet him. They stood straight and face-to-face, Phasma in his leggings and undershirt, Ren fully-armored and cloaked. From inches away, Phasma could hear the amplified breathing, heavy and ragged.

He whispered, “No. But if you’re good, it will be forgiven,” as he embraced him.

Ren neither moved nor spoke as Phasma grabbed him close, one arm wrapping around his back, the other grabbing his rear through his robe. He only tilted his head to the side to let Phasma draw nearer, and Phasma buried his face in the exposed space, nuzzling at the sliver of covered neck exposed between helm and scarf. 

“Unbutton your trousers.”

Ren silently pushed his hand between their bodies and under his robe. He undid his trousers and slid them down a bare inch. Pale hips peeked out from between the slits of his robe, his only exposed flesh. Hearing Ren’s breath quickening, Phasma was vaguely aware that his own was as well.

“Hands behind your back.”

The compliant knight’s wrists were promptly bound together with the same sort of flexible cuffs Phasma had used to immobilize countless captives of the First Order. With Ren’s hands out of the way, his body was at Phasma’s disposal, and the captain took full advantage, running his hands over every inch of his possession despite the multiple layers of robes and undergarments swathing it.

Then, with one smooth push, he swept Ren off his feet.

Ren fell as gently to the side as though he had anticipated it. He hit the floor shoulders first with a quiet thump. He sprawled limp and semi-supine, chest thrust out thanks to the cuffs, long legs spread akimbo in an almost deliberately provocative pose, his visored eyes meeting Phasma’s gaze as he loomed over him.

Phasma leaned down and undid Ren’s girdle, pushing the knight’s slit robe to the side, baring white hips and thighs, and the knight’s cock, half-hard and barely veiled by thin black briefs. 

“You like that, don’t you?” Phasma said, in a tone that made it clear that he expected no response. “That I’m here to command you. To permit you to do things you never would on your own. To direct you in a way our General and Supreme Leader never would.”

Ren moved to rise and Phasma quickly stilled him with a boot to the groin -- not a kick, just a gentle but firm press. “Ah!” 

“Don’t move.” 

Ren’s body stiffened, but he stayed still as Phasma’s boot-tip poked tentatively at his balls, then returned to nudge his shaft in circular motions. Half-stifled twitches and gasps escaped as the hard boot-sole manhandled his cock, but it rose to meet the touch, straining against its cloth confines.

“Ask me for what you want.”

“Please.” Ren responded quickly, in his normal blase tone.

“Convince me.”

This time Ren took longer to respond, and Phasma pressed harder, choking the curt words out of him: “Touch me.” 

“You’re still proud, Ren. Still grasping so hard for control. I used to think you’d open up to me eventually. I liked that you disproved me. Your obedience and attempts at self-discipline are an attractive mixture.”

Ren was silent.

Retracting the boot, Phasma grabbed Ren and him in his arms. He carried him just a few feet to the wall of the room where the cape hung and, knocking the cape to the floor, shoved Ren roughly against the wall and pushed his bound wrists over his head. With some guidance, the flexible handcuffs caught on the coat hook.

The coast hook was by no means a secure restraint; Ren, had he struggled, could have easily broken away, but instead he slumped passively, allowing the restraints and the wall behind him to bear his weight. The height of the hook forced him barely onto tiptoes, thrusting his shoulders backwards and arching his spine so that his arms could extend to meet the strain placed on them. His rumpled trousers had slid nearly to his knees in the process of Phasma moving him, but the robe covered his shame. His helmeted head was downcast, his amplified breath heavy and uneven. 

Phasma knelt before Ren’s bound form. He lifted the knight’s leather boot with a great tenderness, and worked off first one, then another. Then off came the socks, then trousers, then underwear. Ren cut a strange sight now. From waist up, he was the masked black terror of the First Order; from waist down, his gangly white legs peeked coyly like a damsels’ through his slit-sided robe. His slim chest heaved with each breath.

Finally, Phasma delicately unwrapped Ren’s scarf from his neck and tied it around the knight’s helm, covering the eye-slits. 

“Prepare yourself.” 

Sound of a zipper. Wet noises. And strong hands grabbed Kylo Ren’s ass, splitting his legs and pulling one upwards so that his calf rested on Phasma’s shoulder. Ren of his own volition moved his other leg into the same position, alleviating the sudden strain on his wrists. He was straddling the captain’s torso, his weight supported by Phasma’s hands and core, his split legs exposing his erection and spreading his hole.

Two well-slicked fingers wormed their way inside him, bare seconds of probing and scissoring, and then Phasma lowered Kylo onto his cock.

Kylo struggled instinctively. Uselessly. Phasma’s body was his only point of leverage. His flinch pushed them closer. Kylo’s balls slapped against Phasma’s stomach as he was skewered to the root.

His silence broke. He moaned, gasped, pleaded incoherently through his mask as Phasma fucked him -- first gently, with a few exploratory thrusts to confirm the position was tenable, and then violently, as gravity and momentum forced each thrust deeper. Even on the out-thrust, Phasma’s thick cock was still half inside Kylo, spreading him open without reprieve. Suspended, he had no control over the pace or depth of penetration, no way to stop it if it felt like it was too much -- and from his reactions,  _ it was too much _ .

But Phasma didn’t relent. Not even when Kylo’s yells grew enough he feared it would draw attention to them. Kylo’s neglected cock rubbed between their stomachs, fallen to semi-erectness but oozing clear pre from the friction deep inside him. Phasma just quickened the pace, feeling his own cock swell, his balls tighten,  _ closer, closer  _ \--

and there it was, sticky seed dripping between Kylo’s legs, and he withdrew abruptly and left Kylo hanging shackled, gasping and squirming violently in his unfulfillment. His breaths came fast and shallow, his every muscle tensed and spasmed, his body seemed almost to shake with rage and disappointment. 

“So, will you ask me for what you want now?” Phasma said quietly. Kylo, far beyond words, responded with a noise half between a choke and a growl. 

He went quiet as Phasma slowly lifted a hand up to either side of his helm and unmasked him.

Underneath, Kylo was flushed, lips moist and half-open, dark hair hopelessly disheveled. For the first second, Phasma thought he saw a face wracked in terror, lust, desperation, but no -- Kylo Ren’s eyes were glassy and unexpectedly calm. He had nearly the same facial expression on every occasion it was visible. But the redness around his eyes and the damp tears on his cheeks betrayed his muted affect.

Phasma left Ren to calm down for a few seconds as he retrieved a blade to free him from his cuffs. Set loose, Ren slumped into Phasma’s arms, and the captain pulled him close and buried him in a deep kiss. Ren received the kiss without strength or initiative. He was warm and pliant in Phasma’s grasp: a completely different figure from the faceless monster most knew, but just as inscrutable. As Phasma held his lover tight, he thought:

_ Even when the helmet’s off, he’s always wearing a mask… _

  
  
  



End file.
